


a few dozen left over thoughts

by orphan_account



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:05:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Feelstide Prompt #56: Eggnog</p>
<p>Clint thinks he can be a chef this holiday season. He then finds out he needs to rethink that plan again, as well as the rest of his December.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a few dozen left over thoughts

Let’s talk about payday. Obviously Stark has it made. Capt doesn’t accept extra money for his heroic duties, claiming that it’s pay enough to rescue others, but is willing to still accept his military funds. Tasha? You couldn’t tell what was earned via job and what was earned via job if you tried, but needless to say, there was a lot of it. Thor had no need for money because he owned an entire superior kingdom or something, and Bruce saved so much he could be losing money each month, and still somehow have a higher bank statement than the last.

But me? Did you know, after that whole fiasco alien invasion in NYC, admittedly I aided without consent but still turned up after getting my head turned inside out and my ass kicked five different directions, I didn’t get a lick of one dollar for my personal accounts? No, S.H.I.E.L.D. paid me, and I say paid with some air quotes, by putting me in their medical rooms free of charge until my broken leg healed up and all the fractures stopped stinging every inch I moved. I questioned at the time whether or not that was actually in my contract already and Fury was just jipping me out of some spare cash with the argument that paying for my medical bills was ten times more the amount the average human. It’s not my fault I hate hospitals, I just do.

Usually none of this would bother me. I like living in the small apartment at the top of a towering building in the middle of nowhere, NYC. Nowhere because it’s one of those blocks you can’t find unless you already know where it is. My apartment is big enough for me, myself, and I, and sometimes whoever decides to sleep with me for a cold night. I had enough clothes to last me two weeks between laundry cycles, and between the side jobs I got in the area and whatever Tasha occasionally left around for me, I had enough money to afford decent meals and whatever pleasures I indulged in daily.

But this, this… this was ridiculous. “I don’t have the money for that,” I grumbled, only half realizing that I had been talking out loud. “4.99 for a quarter of a gallon? That’s ridiculous!” I almost felt like chewing off my nails, except they were already at a length that I liked. Which happened to be different lengths for each nail, but none of them caught on anything and none of them were too short that the edges got raw. Also, no hang nails, so I really shouldn’t mess with them now. For all my fingers went through, they deserved a bit of rest over the holidays.

I looked to the side, and not two rows over was the egg section. And of course, said egg section was on sale, 99 cents per carton of a dozen. I had been planning on not doing much for the holidays, perhaps pigging out on some stuffing with cream of mushroom soup layered on top, maybe a steak. All those horrible foods that taste of pure fattening content that have to be devoured during the season. But it wasn’t the same without eggnog, and I had been presented with the sale of gods. The only thing that stood in my way now was actually making the stuff. I could cook fine, but eggnog was edge baking, not my forte. But, it had to be done. Usually I only bought the 6 egg mini cartons but...

I started loading packages of eggs into my basket, checking them first for any broken occupants, adding the third carton when I heard the familiar voice. “What’s with all the eggs, Barton?”

I turned around to see Phil Coulson, S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Extraordinaire. He was wearing some semi casual suit, complete with tie, but at least it looked like it was from some store you’d find in the mall, opposed to the normal fine tailored fancy worth-more-than-my-dream-car suits. “And what’s with you being in a small corner convenience store in the middle of New York City?” I asked, somewhat disbelieving in the fact he was standing in front of me. Honestly I had never met him outside of the base and work. “Coulson,” I added at the end, racking my brain, not sure if we’re supposed to keep up customs now.

“I come here all the time; I don’t live too far away,” he responded, taking a few steps closer and looking into the basket I was carrying. I tried to remember if there was some mansion section of city nearby, because Coulson wouldn’t live in anything less. I assumed.

“I guess that makes sense… I just stopped by because it was on the walk back from... that other place…” Call me an idiot, but I was having a real hard time deciding if I was supposed to debrief him or  
question his shopping choices. Especially after, well the past few months. Remember S.H.I.E.L.D. paying for my hospital bill? Well after the shwarma party, I limped my way back to find that the room I was sharing was with none other than Phil Coulson. (It took a story told four different times for me to realize that the whole time we were out, everyone else was under the impression that Phil Coulson was dead. While I had cringed at the explicit telling, I was the lucky one to not have to actually believe it at any time.)

That had been an interesting few months. There was a lot of talking that went on, obviously more from my mouth from his, but he was still fun to quip back and forth with sometimes. At first it was annoying, sharing a room with him, and somewhat embarrassing. He was the one completely bed ridden, with a hole through his chest. He needed assistance to eat and go to the bathroom, yet he never appeared to be  
shamed, even being reduced to immobility. Meanwhile I threw every shit storm I could about my mere leg. Likewise, I wasn’t allowed to watch certain shows, since he found them stupid and of course we shared a tv. Also there was a lights out time, that was a little earlier than the rest of the ward; apparently Coulson was the type to go to bed early and get up even earlier.

But as the days moved along, we started to talk more. Sometimes we talked about past missions that resulted in ridiculous failures, ones we wouldn’t be able to laugh about if we weren’t so awesome. Some evenings got a little more personal, and before long he had me spilling my horrendous back story to him. I remember at the end him saying, “I like it,” as if it was some fictitious fairy tale I had pulled out of my ass. Yet, I wasn’t offended, because for some reason, it felt like he was respecting everything that made me.

And then there were the nights I couldn’t sleep, and would turn over to find that he was also awake. Not that he stayed up, but he always seemed to know when I wasn’t taking a healthy sleeping habit. I joked  
to myself that it was because he was hyper aware of alive people in a room that he sleeps in, just in case some midnight killing needs to go on… but it was at that point…

“You never answered my question, Barton.” I blinked, then looked down at all the eggs.  
“Nog.” I replied, getting a ‘hm’ of confusion in return. “Eggnog; it’s too expensive, so I’m making it myself.”  
“You can cook?”  
“That’s not funny,” I mumbled, resisting the urge to glare. He still looked sharper than a pin, yet he was joking and laughing in public. Was this a dream come true or a nightmare and suddenly demons would be raining from the skies?   
“Though, I’ve never tried eggnog before. I just know I’m not buying crapnog for 7.99 a gallon.” I didn’t bother actually calculating the price of the eggnog. It was an estimate; I should have said like 13 instead to push my point.  
“Really? It’s not that hard,” Coulson said, walking around me to get half and half for himself.  
“And you do know how to make it?”  
“My mother had a tradition of buying nothing premade, not even a pie crust.” That much work for a meal? I’d go with the circus.  
“Excellent, you’re hired!” I chirped, stepping closer before remembering I should probably survey the area for guards. Even being property of S.H.I.E.L.D. myself, Phil Coulson was treasured at the most extreme, and if he was still recovering in any way, I could see myself being shot for nudging him. A quick look around informed me though that for once, we were truly out of the physical eyes of Fury. Digital, maybe not so much. He was uplinked to the entire world.  
“Hired?” Coulson didn’t look upset, but actually amused, as if he had been expecting me to pull this trick.  
“Yeah, you come help me cook, and I’ll share my spoils and old cheesy Christmas movies with you.” I shrugged. “Also my couch was my big ticket item of the season, and it’s like heaven with donuts.”  
Coulson moved to grab a half gallon of heavy cream off the shelf, setting it in my basket to perfectly offset the eggs. I took it as a yes.

The rest of the shopping trip I didn’t remember very well. Coulson had taken my basket and started to fill it up with things we both wanted and or needed for holiday dinner. He had handed me his regular mobile phone (Obviously he had more than one) to look up an eggnog recipe, but I got distracted playing Angry Birds. Shut up, trajectory and velocity are my favourite things to mess with. I didn’t even notice that he had paid for my stuff; apparently he was too amused over my child-like obsession to pull me away from it.

 

The climb wasn't as bad as it looked, but it still managed to wind me. Not the actual stairs part, no, nor the heavy bags. Actually it was the part where Simone rested her hand on my shoulder, lightly squeezing and wishing me good luck before being on her way down the rest of the stairs. I wasn't exactly sure what she was assuming, but I knew that by tomorrow it'd be spread out through the building. Rumor of my Avenger status had already spread, and that probably wasn’t being helped by bringing Agent Suit into my apartment. Perhaps I should think about moving in with Stark after all…

“Home sweet home,” I mumbled, opening the door for Phil and allowing him to go in first. Usually Lucky didn’t mind at all, not even lifting an ear when I returned. Except this time I had company, and that  
required a greeting.  
“I didn’t know you had a dog, Barton,” was the stereotypical answer to follow. That would be, if Phil was normal. I was now left wondering how, one, he was so surprised, and two, how he didn’t know the moment I rescued him. Maybe he was just playing dumb, but at least Lucky liked him, and that was all that mattered.  
We talked for a bit. Phil pointed out different things in my small, dull apartment he found amusing and I would give a little story to each item. It took us a good half hour to just put the food away, and even longer to get back around to actually cooking up something, in this case, nog of egg.

“Four eggs,” Phil Coulson’s voice rang out. My eye twitched, as I noticed I was truly off in my calculations. What the hell was I going to do with three and a half dozen eggs?  
“We can make extra, right?”  
“I suppose, it’s your eggnog,” he replied, shrugging as he pulled a finger across the screen, viewing the rest of the recipe. “Why, how many batches were you planning?”  
“Just three. Three times four equals a dozen, so I’d at least get one carton out of the way.” I think I felt an eye roll in the background, but I wasn’t sure. I wouldn’t put it past him. The actual cooking went  
rather smoothly, since most of it was Phil in his rolled-up-sleeved regular dress shirt doing all of the work, and I was just playing fetch with Lucky. No, not with a ball. I’d fetch the items called out for the recipe, and the dog would circle my feet and follow me back and forth as I moved. I stopped a few times mid way across the kitchen to taunt him, but his only response would be to wag his tail all happy like. It wasn’t until he got the first half in the fridge that Cook Coulson finally allowed me to start helping out.

“I don’t know how you did that,” Phil grumped as he washed off the egg and sugar mixture from his face. “It said beat gently.”  
“Did you see how I took down Lo-alien? I’m not gentle. Also, this thing only has six settings and I chose the lowest one; I don’t see how I wasn’t being ‘gentle’ enough.”  
“You always turn it off before lifting out of the bowl, Barton. And I’m very sure it was on six at that point.”  
“Lies, all lies,” I mumbled, mouth currently occupied with one of the beaters. I wasn’t one to waste, not even the sweetened raw egg whites soft peaked on these damn tongue mazes.Though the human tongue could only navigate so far for such simple tastes, and I eventually dumped off the beaters into the soapy water below, only to be laughed at. Well, more like a chuckle, very calm. “What?”  
“Your face.”  
“Is the same as always.”  
“You’re right. It’s what’s on your face. How did you even manage that?”  
“What why? Where is it?”  
“On your forehead.”  
“Well you’re the one with the rag,” I grumbled, mixing around some of the murky soapy water with my fingers. I should get on washing thedishes.

If anyone ever told you that Phil Coulson was not a ninja, play poker with them. All their bluffs would be easy to catch now that you know their tell. I perhaps was expecting him to hand the rag over. On best case scenario, I was expecting him to run it across my face. Instead, I was met with his face leaning in towards mine, apparently to get the little dab off my nose before softly wiping the rest of my face with the dish cloth. I’m not sure if time stood still or I just had a combined heart attack and stroke, because that was not supposed to happen.

The doorbell. Some alarms in the back of my head were reminding me of the door, specifically the bell that was going off. I think Phil said something along the lines of, ‘aren’t you going to get that?’ but I could’ve mistaken the last words for ‘muskrat’ at this point. Clint Barton, speak.  
“” I said, pretty sure it was at least English, before turning and rushing towards the front door. I remembered half way there I had promised a neighbor to help him move some furniture today. It was sort  
of the rent for being in the building, help your buddies sometimes. Fair enough, I’m pretty sure I told that to Coulson before running out the door.

 

Did I? Needless to say, walking back into the apartment two hours later filled my stomach with bile of regret. I’m pretty sure I had told him that I might not be back right away. As I opened the door, the first thing I noticed was Lucky placed in his usual corner of carpet, instead of the kitchen. That was good enough indication that Phil had left the building. There was a pleasant smell though…

In the oven was some kind of baked French toast. I hadn’t paid too much attention to what Phil had bought at the store, but this is apparently what he had made of it, and damn, did it smell good. Closing the door again, I found myself face to face with a timer that read only four minutes left cooking. It smelled of cinnamon and coffee liquor goodness.

“How… what if I wasn’t home and it burned?” I grumbled, not even sure how to believe the situation myself. Agent Coulson would know better, he had this to the T. On the way to the fridge I was met with a pile of perfectly cleaned dishes. The man knew how to work.

And of course, to top it all off, while the rest of the eggnog was in a jug in the back, right on the eye level shelf of the fridge I found my treat. A spiced, spiked eggnog in the only nice glass I owned, flared with little garnishes and a cinnamon stick. It looked like I just walked into the billionaires club for holiday desert and was given heaven in a glass. Except it tasted like god in a glass, to be honest.

Was this a challenge? No, it was Phil Coulson, but that didn’t stop me from being determined to top him.

 

Wait. I turned around and opened the fridge in a flash, and there it  
was. How could I miss it?  
Only half a dozen eggs left.

**Author's Note:**

> kjanskds I'm sorry if it sucks! I haven't written any fan fiction in about 5 years and yup. Bryony proofread it for me thank you SO much.  
> It will be continued in a way within the next prompt I'm doing. Likewise, I may type up some hospital time between them I don't know. But enjoy? Ahahahha again sorry if it's crap.
> 
> (also I think I did this out right akjsndksakda)


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